Saturday, April 8, 2017

AFTER DARK, MY SWEET: A Personal Reflection

I didn’t grow up in the forties
or fifties, so I didn’t discover B-movies
in their original form, as the second features stuck behind classier A-movies.
Nor did I discover the world of film noir the way people did in the sixties and seventies, through
the midnight movies on TV that
transfixed the generation of noir geeks before me.

No, I was born in 1975, which means I
came up in the eighties and nineties. Appropriately, then, I discovered noir in
the distinct fashion of a Gen Xer: I found it at the video store. There’s
more to this story, though, a personal twist.

I was brought up in a devout
Southern Baptist house where certain movies were forbidden. It’s tempting to go
for simplicity here and say that R-rated movies were forbidden, but that’s not
exactly true. Only certain kinds of R-rated movies were forbidden. Anything
with sex. Sex in movies was bad. Totally bad. Every time. No sex. (Even
PG-rated sex scenes could change the climate in our family den. Once a bra slipped
off, the air would get thin, and I would feel the sense of bodily danger you
get when you know God’s wrath is about to fall.) Anything with a lot of cussing
was also forbidden. You were allowed one F-word in a movie. Maybe two. After
that, things got a little tense.

Violence was okay as long as it
wasn’t overly gory. Dirty Harry laying waste to a bunch of punks? Cool. Slasher
flicks (which, of course, might also run the risk of featuring nudity)? Not
cool.

Dutiful son that I was, when I
was sent to the video store to pick out a movie I tried to avoid all of the
aforementioned pitfalls.

When I was home alone, however, I
was a deceitful little sleaze. I would, on occasion, sneak out to the video
store to pluck some forbidden fruit (fruit that I returned as soon as possible
to avoid any late fees).

Enter AFTER DARK, MY SWEET. 1991.
The poster for this film — and thus the cover for the video box — was a picture
of Jason Patric and Rachel Ward engaged in sweaty physical congress. The title
sounded like direct-to-video sleaze. I vaguely remembered Siskel and Ebert
saying the movie was great, but greatness was not on my mind. The possibility
of seeing Rachel Ward naked was on my mind.

I secreted the video into the
house and watched it when no one was home.

I learned two things about AFTER
DARK, MY SWEET that day.

1. You don’t really get to see
Rachel Ward naked. I would love to act like that didn’t matter to me, but it
did. I was disappointed. Simply as a consumer engaged in a capitalist
enterprise, I felt I had not been well served. I had, after all, paid money for
the expressed purpose of seeing Rachel Ward naked.

2. AFTER DARK, MY SWEET is a
masterpiece. It’s the best film noir of the 1990s, and one of the best films,
period, of that entire decade. As a human being experiencing a work of art, I
was transfixed.

Jason Patric (whose sweaty ass
you do get to see, natch) and Rachel Ward are both beyond great. Patric’s
character Kevin “Collie” Collins, disgraced former boxer and psyche ward
escapee, was sort of my first anti-hero, or, at least, he was the first
anti-hero I ever saw where I was pretty sure that what I was seeing was a man
scraping up some last vestige of his willpower to do something that no one
would understand. He tries to save Ward’s boozy widow from a goofy kidnapping
scheme cooked up by a degenerate ex-cop named Uncle Bud (played with exquisite
seediness by Bruce Dern). By the end, Collie dies face down in the dirt, gut
shot by the woman he loves, but it’s all okay because he did it all for her.

And Rachel Ward taught me things
about women that, at 17 years old, I didn’t know I needed to learn. She was
lovely and leggy, but what made her fascinating was a sadness, a deep-seated
knowledge that most dreams don’t come true. The moment she starts talking in
the film, mocking Patric’s fumbling attempts at polite conversation — mocking,
really, the whole idea of polite conversation — you can’t take your eyes off
her. You get why Patric wants to save her, and also why he thinks she can save
him. She’s the only person he’s ever met who understands his loneliness. In a
way — in a beautifully noir way — they do save each other.

The film wasn’t arty, but I was
aware of the director, James Foley. I was aware that I was watching a movie
with a vision. Was it his?

Maybe, though it’s probably more
correct to say that Foley brilliantly realized Jim Thompson’s vision. Ah, yes, I
also discovered Jim Thompson that day in my family den. Who was the guy who
wrote this story that was the saddest, most romantic, most thrilling thing I’d
ever seen? Revisiting the film many times over the years as my love of
Thompson’s novels grew, I realized that the scenes with Patric and the creepy
psychologist played by George Dickerson are the most spot-on interpretations of
Jim Thompson’s work that have ever been put onscreen. People think that
Thompson’s novels are about psychos, or about violence. No, they’re about the
last slender thread of decorum stretching and stretching until it turns
translucent and you can see right though it to the terrible truth that will be
unleashed the moment it snaps. AFTER DARK, MY SWEET gets that. It gets that
beautifully.